Tuesday, July 28, 2015

I made a commitment at the beginning of this year to compile enough new poems to be published in a book of poetry. It's August and I've only written ten poems. Ten good poems. So I'm considering submitting a few of them to some literary magazines. Because honestly that's how you do it. My chances of getting an entire book published is low if I haven't had a single publication. I'm also don't hold an MFA in Creative Writing, nor do I teach at a college in some pastoral university at the foot of a beautiful mountain. Strike and strike.

Wednesday, July 8, 2015

I'm currently reading Nabokov's Lolita. Today I am taking the train into the city for an appointment, but I'm apprehensive about bringing that book. It's creepy, right? A middle aged man alone reading Lolita on a train. I can't do it. This is a normal line of thought, right? I'm taking a different book. One that won't make me look like Humbert Humbert.

Monday, July 6, 2015

I got a surprising text from an old high school friend the other day. One of our close friends from high school died last week. His name was Joe and he died of an apparent drug overdose. I hadn't seen Joe since high school, but he lived across the street from me. We grew up together. He was a good person. And now he's dead. "Found in his apartment dead of an apparent drug overdose."

No one told me that life starts taking shit away when we get older. Parents, friends, passion, muscle, hair. I'm fat and frustrated and now people I rode bikes with as a child are dying. I'm not ready for this. I'm not emotionally equipped to handle this reality.

Are we just supposed accept things as they happen? Where the fuck do I lodge a goddammed complaint? Because I got complaints, man. A lot of fucking complaints.

Joe was funny. He made me laugh. All my memories of him are funny. I wonder what people will think of me when I die. Will my son think I was good dad?